They Lie When They say it's Bittersweet
by mandaree1
Summary: The doctor says Stan has three months to live. No one, Wendy especially, is stupid enough to think he'll go before he can prove them wrong.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Gravity Falls!**

 **Title: They Lie When They say it's Bittersweet**

 **Summary: The doctor says Stan has three months to live. No one, Wendy especially, is stupid enough to think he'll go before he can prove them wrong.**

 **Warnings: Character death, obviously. Mentions of sex work at the very beginning; more of an adult joke than anything else.**

 **...**

"Hey, did I ever tell you 'bout that time I worked as a stripper?"

Stanley Pines makes for quite the image, sick in a bed. His ever-present scowl was tinged with the sourness of boredom, and the stubble he bore had begun to grow.

The bed itself is plain but well-made, the mattress cheap but resistant to stains. They all swear it's because the fabric is so lumpy and fake the liquids run away screaming. His blanket is baby blue and thin. The pillow has no give. The bunk is too small, so if he were to turn over he would fall off; being the seasoned man that he is he never does, skillfully clinging to frame and desk in his sleep to shift.

Wendy Corduroy makes for an odd caretaker as she moves around some stems in a flower vase on the desk to the left of his bed, a get-well card from the town propped up next to the piece for him to read later. A jacket tied around her waist, undershirt riding up a bit to showcase a scar that bit into her left hipbone, her pants and boots are heavy and muddied from work. Even in her early twenties she's scrawny and pale, long red hair falling smooth against her back.

"Uh, no?" Wendy shuddered, strong shoulders rippling with the effort. "Kinda glad you didn't, honestly."

"Ah. Yeah, I had a coupla jobs like that. Coupla strip joints, had a brief stint as a prostitute, the like."

"Okay. Ew. Weird."

"Eh. I've done weirder things for money."

"Okay, real talk; why are you telling me this?"

Stan shrugs. "Was kinda hoping you'd get grossed out and leave me alone."

"Hoping to climb out the window, were you?"

"Yup."

"Well, too bad, ya' old codger," She reached out to playfully ruffle his hair. "Sick old dudes need to heal."

He scoffed. "We both know I ain't healing, Wendy."

Wendy doesn't reply. They'd all tried to get Stan to attempt treatments, or even live in a care facility, but he'd all but punched anyone who brought it up. She really couldn't understand the old man's desperate wish to fight a losing battle against the afterlife with no weapons, but she also knew she had no right to force it. After all, nobody likes that stranger who breaks up a fistfight.

* * *

The doctor gave him three months. It's been four. That has far from given them hope, of course. Doctors mess up what gender babies are gonna be when they're born; why not death dates?

The fragile nature of winter seems to have infected the town, giving it an eerie silence. Dipper and Mabel have parked their butts in her cabin indefinitely, refusing to return home even when school threatens to start up without them. Pacifica floats between her place and McGucket's mansion, sleeping as far away from her old room as possible. They say she and the wife get along fairly well. Soos knocks on her door once a week with tears in his eyes, shakily asking how Stan is doing. It's like he's losing his father all over again, so she can forgive that one call at two in the morning.

Gravity Falls itself seems to be faltering in its' usually peppy step. Lazy Susan closes early every Friday to cook a big buffet that no one really eats when she brings it down to the shack. Tambry's posts have almost no emojis, and Robbie's songs are a bit less fumbling, with more pain hefted upon the trauma he went through as a teen. Even Bodacious T doesn't seem as thrilled to discuss the warfare of sports. Tad Strange monotony tells her that he is sad, and time must be as well. It shuffles but never walks.

Wendy gets it. Stan had been a pillar in Gravity Falls far longer than she had been alive. A stranger to all who knew him, but a familiar face, a recognizable growl in his voice. The bond seemed to only have grown after Weirdmageddon; thousands of miles away hunting anomalies, they finally _knew_ Stan. They knew his name. They knew his past. They knew his brother.

And what about before that? When he took in Soos and taught him how to fix almost anything? When he never mentioned Father's Day when everyone else did? When he lit a spark of admiration in a little boy's eyes?

Wendy has been a stressed child, snappish and violent. The world has been hung over her shoulders, from her mother to her father's inability to not leave wreckage wherever he went, to her brothers' shenanigans, and she didn't know how to hold that yet. She's faced war and death and being permanently latched to a town thanks to some sort of weird fantasy prophecy and she's gotten past it.

(She doesn't know how she's ever gonna get over Stan.)

* * *

Five months. Spring is here, and the ground is slick with mud. Stan has stopped trying to get out of bed.

"Yeesh. Can't you close the blinds, or somethin'? The sunlight is killing my eyes."

Wendy quietly gets up to shut it. "Says the man who complained it was too dark."

"It is! Honestly, kid. You built this place and you can't even make it bright?"

"Hey!" She chided. The room is an add-on to Stan and Ford's emergency cabin, off to the left of the town. She knows for a fact that Stan is the only one living there at the moment, but townsfolk pour in and out like water. The lampshade is covered in Mabel's stickers and Dipper left some vintage boxing gloves he found at an auction somewhere. Pictures of him surround the table- mostly him and Soos, with some of him and the kids.

She's in two of them.

Wendy hesitates at the mess. Her face softens as she bites her lip, ashamed. She should've been in more. "You want me to build you another window? One that's _not_ in your eye line?"

"Sure, why not?" He laughs, but he grumbles while he laughs. "Let's kill what's left of my hearing while we're at it. Just rip out my hearing aids and have at the wall with a chainsaw."

"Maybe I will," She murmurs, but never does.

* * *

Seven. It's summer, and she can remember the first time she met Soos.

She was so angry. Angry at herself, angry at life, angry at the bozos she beat up.

"Freak!" One spits over his shoulder as she scampers away. "It's freaks like you who end up working for that old hag!"

It's nothing new. She's been told all her life that weirdos end up in the Mystery Shack. The Corduroy family has never been 'normal.'

"I dunno what's so wrong 'bout that. The Mystery Shack is the best place ever!"

She turns, fist raised.

Soos only barely towers over her, nonchalantly eating an ice cream cone. His face is friendly. "'Sup, dawg?"

It's hard to imagine she'd end up here, patting his back while he cries. Stan had asked him what year it was, and honestly seemed serious.

* * *

Eight months. Ford has a little watch that tells him when another hour has passed. Not another hour in the day, just... another hour.

"You should go." She's urging him- this old scientist who has faced Bill's dimension and came back of decently sound mind- to pack his bags like a mother instructs an irritate toddler. "He would want you to go."

"Well, no civilians have been eaten yet," He titters, bringing up that little holograph globe. "Maybe this surge can wait."

"Until someone _dies_? Seriously, dude?" She knocks him a hard one in the shoulder. "You've gone years without seeing your bro. A coupla weeks won't hurt."

"But that was _different_!" His voice rises in pitch. He almost sounds hysterical. "Stan wasn't _dying_ then!"

They pause to avert their eyes to the ground.

"He could've starved to death at any time after he was kicked out," She reminded him quietly; not to get a dig in, but because it's the truth. "You've lived on then, and you can do it now. Like it or not, Ford, you've got a job to fulfill. The kids aren't going to do it for you until they've graduated."

Ford doesn't say anything a long moment. Wendy wills him to recognize that he hasn't exactly had the courage to face him since his condition worsened. He's living in Soos's basement rent-free, after all, passing them food and other things while very rarely going in himself.

"He should've been gone a long time ago." He says stiffly. "It feels like any second could be his last."

Wendy's heart throbs at the recognition. She knew that feeling well.

"Normally I'd agree with you, but we all know Stan." She set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "If a doc says he'll live for three months he'll live for three years, just to prove 'em wrong."

Ford's mouth turns upwards slightly. She takes that as a sign that she's reassured him.

"Perhaps you're right, my dear. Perhaps."

* * *

Twelve months. A whole year has passed spent worried about a dying man.

There's something oddly consuming about taking care of a sick person. They begin to take over your life; not because they want to, but because you let them.

And it's not like Wendy had a lot on her plate anyway. She's your friendly local lumberjack, there to spread building supplies like confetti but at a higher cost. She's got a stash of cash in the back she's kept saved up for trips to Piedmont that she could always dip into.

"I ain't seen none of your delinquent friends recently."

Wendy turns to him. She's found it hard to watch him shave the old-fashioned way, straight blade and mirror, with shaking hands. Stan is thinning out, belly bulging while his bony shoulder jut outwards. His eyes are sunken in silent deterioration.

"I haven't hung out with them lately." She shrugged. "Demand for my craft has been a tad high recently."

"Winter does that."

"No kiddin'."

"You know what you need? To get outta the house for a bit," He waved the blade around. "You're gettin' pale, even for a ginger."

Her eyebrow twitched. "I look fine, thank you very much."

Stan sighs. "I'm _trying_ to tell ya' to leave me be and go play in the woods."

"Dude, you've got a razor. I don't trust you alone with something that sharp."

"That's reasonable," He agrees with an amiable shrug. Wendy takes the blade. "There. Now, get out of my face."

"Alright, dude. S'your choice." She slipped off her chair and quietly left the room. Wendy would never admit it, but panic and anxiety hounded at her.

He's got time. He's got to have time.

* * *

A year and three months. Wendy decks Robbie when he asks her if the old codger is taking a dirt nap yet. Only a week earlier Dipper and Mabel picked a fight with the Northwest family, only barred by the conflicted intentions of their daughter. Pacifica delivers a heartfelt apology for her parent's behavior and asks that the twins spare them of their wrath.

"They're rich idiots, and it's not like they won't be dead soon enough anyway." She states more than once, and Wendy can't help but think that sounds a bit too much like a goal. Years of begging forgiveness can only do so well in the heart of a proud girl like her. She's probably waiting for the chance to stop asking and to start putting her best foot forward.

The weekly buffets have become monthly ones. Stan isn't the only one getting old, and many days Lazy Susan is so faint she can hardly leave a bar stool.

"I'll keep him in my heart," She'd promised. "But I can't keep him in my cooking."

Dan is almost always at Skull Fracture, fiddling with that broken arm wrestling machine. Retired and bored, it wasn't uncommon for him to be doubling as the bouncer so the other guy can take a day off. He showed no real emotion towards Stan's decline.

"He was a funny MAN, but we all go sometime, sweetie." He patted her head in a vague comforting gesture. "I'll call your brothers. They can take over for you while you're BUSY."

"He's not dead yet," She'd snapped, brushing his hand off. "Stop talking like he is."

"Honey, there comes a time when a man's SPIRIT dies. I don't have to SEE him to know his is GONE."

Wendy takes out her aggression on trees. This was no harder for her than her mother's death; but then she'd been a kid and was allowed to act out as much as she wanted. This time they tell her she has to be calm every second of everyday, grieving silently, but dangit if that's just not how a Corduroy works.

She chops the tree down- Stan doesn't even bother trying to get out of bed anymore- cuts the carcass into bundles of firewood- Ford still isn't back yet; is he dead?- ties them accordingly- Soos hardly ever opens the shack these days- and carries them back by hand, stiffly handing them out to the neighbors- the kids have dropped out of school to take care of Stan; what happens when he's gone?

What happens after?

* * *

A year and five months. Stan almost seems restless, constantly calling out for his brother.

"Is Ford back yet?"

"Not yet, Stan. Soon."

"Okay. Is Ford back yet?"

"He's just wrapping things up in the ice caps, dude. He'll be back soon."

"Okay. Hey, we destroyed that portal in the basement, didn't we?"

"Yup." Telling him it was just Ford might get him asking again.

"Sealed the place tight with cement?"

"Uh, Stan? We never did that."

His eyes are fuzzy but insistent. "Do it. It's a fire hazard. Set my jacket on fire once. Set Ford on fire. Is Ford-"

"We'll do our best, Stan. You're digging your nails into your scar again."

He pulled his hand from his back like a chastised puppy. "It feels like it's on fire."

"It hasn't been burnt in years, Stan. The fire's gone now."

"Okay. Is Ford back yet?"

"Soon, Stan."

"He set me on fire once. It was blue."

"He felt bad about that."

"I know, I know. My insides hurt. Did I ever set my face on fire?"

"Stop obsessing over fire, Stan. There's no fire. We don't even have matches, promise."

"Okay." He began to drift off. "Is Ford back yet?"

"Soon." She said, when it was all she could do to possibly make this confused man even slightly happy, when really she didn't honestly know.

* * *

A year and six months. Eighteen months total. The doctor only gave him three, so he stole the rest and eventually got caught. At least, that's the kind of punchline he'd use.

"Come on, big fella." Wendy felt her heartbeat speed up as she heaved the older man into a sitting position. It felt cruel that today was such a nice fall day. "Ford'll be here soon. Less than an hour."

"Meh."

"Don't 'meh' me. He's worried about you."

"Tell him I'm kicking up daises."

"You aren't dead." She chided.

"Give me a few and we'll see."

The clarity in his tone sent a chill down her spine. Stan had been like this all week, grumbling and listless but not delusional. He'd asked to see every friend he had, few they were in number, and she'd made sure they come. It only seemed right.

"Nice to sit up, isn't it?" Wendy prodded, hoping it'd take his mind away from morbid topics.

"'Course. I think all that lying around gave me welts." His grip on her arm tightened, but compared to the man she knew it was feeble. "Hey. You're an idiot."

"Thanks." She responded with a mostly dry tone. It sounded almost like the boss she once had.

"No, really. You are. You've been lil' miss therapist this entire time. It's just not you."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

He grunted. "A conman knows all the tricks," Stan warned her with a wheeze. "You think if you ignore the pain it'll go away. Well, that's stupid. And it never works."

She stiffened, gritting her teeth at a sudden pressure in her throat. "Tough talk from the man who spent thirty years screwing with a sci-fi nightmare alone for his bro."

"Hey, I never said I was smart. But _you_ are." Stan returned. Wendy suddenly noticed just how thin his hair had gotten as she refused to look him the eye. "You better cry a river if it makes ya' feel bad, you hear me? No more of this stiff upper lip junk."

She forced herself to pull away. "No promises."

Wendy tries not to feel panicked when she finds the twins waiting in the hall. If they felt something was off just as strongly as she did, then it was well and truly off.

"You don't have to see himself if you don't want to," She hunkered down to touch both of their shoulders. "It's not easy to see a guy like Stan this sick."

"Yeah, but..." Mabel hesitates. Her short hair is left to the breeze, unbrushed and curly, and she's forgotten to put on a sweater. "I dunno if I could go on knowing we didn't say goodbye."

A sour taste fills her mouth as Dipper squeezes her wrist. Her presence seems to have reassured them both. Wendy lets them through and waits outside. The room is silent after the door clicks shut.

Finally the front door crashes open. Ford stumbles in ages older-looking than when he left, jacket and clothes haphazardly thrown on. His face was sunken with a lack of sleep.

"No time," She growled, shoving him towards the door. Wendy catches the legs of their fellow friend before he disappears from sight again. Dipper and Mabel shuffle out wiping their faces with short-tempered hands. Wendy's heart goes out to them.

"Let's go get some food."

"'M not hungry." Dipper mutters with no real heat.

"You're not gonna be for a while now, but you're still gonna eat. You need your strength."

Wendy leads them to the diner, where Lazy Susan quickly herd them inside, promising the best pancakes any of them had ever tasted. Dipper pulls what was once her hat further down his brow and tries to disappear into the booth. Mabel twiddles her thumbs.

"Hey," She interjects softly. "We'll get through this."

Dipper replies: "Your phone is ringing."

Wendy jumps, pulls her cell out of her pocket, then clicks answer call. Ford's voice drifts into her ears.

"He's dead."

Her heart plummets and grief fills her, but her voice stays calm. "We all knew it was going to happen."

"Honestly, it was just like Stan to drag it out just to prove a point. Still, he seemed happy enough." He took in a shuddering breath. "You up for a wake later?"

"Of course. I'll ask Soos to make some room in the shack."

"What's Soos doing?"

She cupped a hand over the receiver. Wendy isn't stupid enough to believe they haven't figured it out. "We're having a wake."

"Oh. Can we come with?"

"Sure. You're never too young to get drunk and cry over your problems."

"Wendy?" Ford's voice rumbles.

"Yeah, dude?"

"I went to the doctor."

Time seemed to slow down. Wendy felt something coil than uncoil in her gut.

"They say a year, tops."

 **Author's Note: Someone really nice told me it was neat that I could go funny as well as introspective, so my response was to make the saddest thing I've written in about a year or so. I really like Stan, too, so I gotta hurt him the most, I guess.**

 **Yup, yup, yup. Good luck with all this, ya'll.**

 **-Mandaree1**


End file.
